


The Day the Darkness Receded

by RurouniHime



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Apocalypse, Azkaban, Dark Magic, Gen, Horror, Lovecraftian, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-14
Updated: 2011-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:40:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A doctor journeys to Azkaban, and the cell of the Great War's last living Seer, trying to discover what actually happened during the final days of Voldemort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Day the Darkness Receded

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fic I wrote in response to Shikishi's Halloween Festival challenge. (found here: http://www.livejournal.com/users/shikishi/208257.html ). I picked H.P. Lovecraft, one of my absolute favorite authors. None of the places/pictures featured are mine. Quotes taken from Shakespeare's Richard III.

_"...And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,  
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?_

~W.B. Yeats, The Second Coming

 _“Every species can smell its own extinction.”_

~In the Mouth of Madness

  
****

 **The Day the Darkness Receded**

****

[*Sessions 9-12: Extracted transcripts from the recordings of Dr. R. P. Dolotorius, dated post-Final Day of V—  
Concerns female subject (“unregistered Seer,” war veteran)  
Archived: British Museum, classed confidential, level 3: items awaiting further research]

 _26th December, 2010  
Azkaban prison  
Department of Magical Health working in conjunction with Department of Magical History_

 _[Azkaban is cold, I’m afraid.](http://flickr.com/photos/87916466@N00/43209065) Not to my liking at all, and I must wonder about the poor souls who live here day in, day out… They do not seem to feel the cold as I do, but then, I suppose, everyone has become used to it. The Dementors are scarce – to be expected after the war – and they spend more time moving from cellblock to cellblock than they do troubling their captives, but still the chill pervades._

 _My current subject is a curious individual. A Seer, according to the records that have survived. She is one of the last who was actually present during the war, during the final battle. No— no, sadly, that is incorrect. She is one of the last coherent ones. Goodness knows how she survived._

 _I have asked her about the last battle but when I do, she looks as if she has not understood me and then goes mute. Her topics of choice when she does speak are, shall we say, intriguing. She speaks of… well, houses._

 _Her focus is on three wizarding dwellings in particular. All three have been searched thoroughly numerous times, the searchers employing every known magical technique left to us, and every non-magical method as well. But they are all three full of the same empty chambers, the same dust-covered floors and silent corridors. Perhaps it would be prudent to note that the last time any of the three yielded tangible results of such a search was before the Final Day of V—. Few records have been retained; concerning one of the afore-mentioned dwellings, only the removal of the M— family remains on the scant parchments, and is noticeably devoid of detail._

 _But the buildings. She refers to them by strange titles and will not allow me to call them by their real names, though she does so herself easily enough. The Extractor. The Conduit. The Vortex. I find it all very unusual, to say the least. And then she lapses into her odd gibberish—_

 _That is not exactly right. It is understandable, truly. But her words lack plausibility, and they are given in a voice not her own. I must wonder if all Seers existed as she does, speaking in tongues and hearing voices. She tells me of scenes so grotesque they cannot be believed. But her facts, her dates and details, fit with surprising simplicity._

 _It takes a great deal out of her, it seems, and yet she approaches it with a fervent gleam in her eye that I have not seen since the days of the Death Eaters. And she dislikes **them** horribly. Odd, for one of her station and connections._

 _Alas, when she reaches this point in each of our sessions, she speaks of nothing sensible. Her favorite phrase seems to be “Of the Earth,” which she has recently repeated over and over until it sounds like a spell itself. She used to rise and run about the cell, and still would, had the guards not restrained her three days ago with binding magic. Sedation always follows; confining spells only appear to enrage her and bring her out of her trances. Never have I seen a person fight so vehemently against the use of magic. Her howls alone decry an agony so poignant that the lost Unforgivable, Cruciatus, seems child’s play in comparison. Her favorite phrase is the only discernable set of words then, and she curses in tongues I have never heard._

 _I have here compiled notes and information concerning the topics on which I plan to question her over the next few days. They are all she will speak of willingly— hence my interest – but there seems to be a depth to these subjects that I have not yet plumbed. They are as follows, daily, and in order._

 _M— Manor:  
_

>  _~ancestral home of the M— family._

>  _~forced appropriation of estate by wizarding government: 14th October, 2009_

>  _~removal of remaining occupants on date: 14th October, 2009_

>  _~subject refers to building as “the Conduit”_

 _  
G— Place:  


> ~ancestral home of the B—family, owned briefly by one H. Potter

> ~condemned on date: 13th October, 2009

> ~warded by Department of Aurors following emergency order from R. Scrimgeour: 14th October, 2009

> ~wards disbanded: 20th October, 2009

> ~subject refers to building as “the Extractor” 

  
H— School of Witchcraft and Wizardry:  


> ~boarding school, northern Scotland

> ~site of Final Battle, date: 15th October, 2009

> ~abandoned, date: 23rd October, 2009

> ~subject refers to building as “the Vortex” 

  
This record henceforth to be an ongoing compilation until such time as is deemed unnecessary._

Doctor Ramses Phineas Dolotorius WMD

~ * ~ * ~

 _27th December, 2010_

 _Repeated questions about the Conduit, as she calls it, were unnecessary today, save my initial inquiry. This is the second of the buildings she is obsessed with, and the one that subjects itself to the highest level of coherency. I find myself at a loss to explain her readiness to speak, as well as her sudden unwillingness. It is abrupt, as her fits are abrupt._

 _She has asked for a blanket to cover the cell window. There seems no harm in this request and I have granted it._

 

 **Recorded, Session 9:**

[I know the house.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Harlaxton_manor.jpg#file) I played there as a child, you see. It is great and cold, like all manors of its ilk. Aha, but there is only one other of its ilk, is there not? The rest are dry stone, empty stone.

It is so large. So large. Have you been there? It towers, you see. Each and every parapet, all the little carvings on the highest balustrade. There are gargoyles atop the crest of each roof and we used to run there where the footing was sure, and let kites and ribbons into the sky. Blond and brown, blond and brown. He was like a nymph; I was sure I’d seen sprites at last.

They stared at me. The gargoyles. Have you not seen them? They know you when they look at you, and if you are not of ill-intent, they will let you inside, they will let you up into their ramparts with kites and strings and pretty blond fairies. They will let you dangle the ash of poor kittens into the breeze and watch the wind wipe your tears away. My kitten did not like it there, you see. My kitten. It must have been ill, poor dear, to perish in its sleep as it did.

If you would go there, find the gargoyle with the twisted ear. He whispers. He knows about the family. I heard him at night when I stayed, crawling through the passages, listening. Gate guardians, he called them. Gate guardians of white gold hair and silver-sable eyes. I would have been, you see. I would have married, before the gate opened. It needs no guard now, but I would have been one. It would have glazed my hair and lightened my eyes. And it would have let me see with the eyes of the guardians if there had been more time.

I loved him. I suppose. When we were young with the kites and kittens.

Do not open the gate. It makes them into strangers, and I can barely understand him as it is. Do not turn his words into—

Into—

In. In in I I I I see it!

I see it!

They find the lord of the manor asleep. His bed is lavish. Look into his eyes and see yourself reflected. Tuck his covers in. Cover his unsightly throat. Warm his fingers for they are cold and his left arm is missing. Tidy his room, for it is a sight, and he could not remove the tools they used to put him to sleep, he was so, so tired. So tired.

His hair looks bright over the red sheets. You may touch him. He has stopped bleeding now. Even the heart must sleep.

They find the lady of the manor in the drawing room. She is laughing. She laughs, click-click-click in her throat. Her hair is a white curtain brushing the rug, her neck a bloodless pale, speckled red, she laughs at the ceiling. Click click click. Polished vase, perfect, velvet plush. The house elves dust every day every night every moon.

She has grey eyes and they do not focus anymore. She has pink lips and they smile halfway up her face. She has powder skin, blue-veined, long aristocrat fingers, translucent nails. She lifts them and tears long furrows into silken cheeks. They bind her hands, they bind her body. She has perfect teeth like pearls and chews through her lip until the blood floods over her chin and they immobilize her.

She laughs out of frozen throat.

Clickclickclick.

They find her son in the basement, sitting in the corner, and also on the walls. His clothing is soft, silk, and shredded. The sigil against his arm is carved away _no we do not say its name blood traitor it is wrong wrong wrong it is a FALSE god!_

He writes.

Happily ever after, happily ever after, happily ever after, h-a-p-p-I I _I see it_. He writes in red, he swipes his finger over the false god and practices calligraphy with the pad of his thumb. He’s had tutors all his life, A is for Apple, B is for Blood. D-L-M is for last surviving son.

‘Draco?’ and he stops. His ink drips onto the floor. He croaks in his throat. One eye moves and the other stays, and he finds the knife coloured with old ink, he scrabbles, handprinting the floor, fast fast _too fast_ , he crawls up robes, he wheels back, he arches, he slashes, new ink, new ink.

He writes h-a-p-p-i-l before they grab him and take him away.

* * *

 _28th December, 2010_

 _It has grown colder. The frost has begun to seep inside the walls._

 _The Dementors are moving more often now. Just last night there was a minor incident wherein three Dementors got into the cells on the north side of the island. The previous cell occupants have been laid to rest, and the wards have been recast, though the warden can find no reason for the failure of the previous spells._

 _Today I have decided to question her about G— Place. She seems most reluctant to speak of it, but…wait. She has begun._

 

 **Recorded, Session 10:**

Grimmauld, you say? That one is old. The First. The Extractor. There are stairs there that go down into the deepest darkness, where the little torches are lit for the candle-carriers at night. [Even the rats will not go so deep.](http://www.ibiblio.org/wm/paris/cata/bw/crypte.1.jpg) They locked up the cellar, you see, when they departed. They are not here anymore, they are Of The Earth.

For God’s sake, do not wish them back. They left bits of themselves behind.

It was built in the 1100’s, and the Blacks, oh, the Blacks. What they did in that Beneath the Cellar. Oh, but they were asked. _They_ were favored. We do not name it, what they did. Such deeds need the closeness of the earth. Such spells as that. The Blacks only used the oldest of implements, the blessed tools to do their blessed work. And sweet music, the clank, the rattle, the thwack, the thwack thwack, the voices. You cannot hear them from the second floor except after the lights are put out. The househeart begins to beat, and it finds you in the dark, and then you can hear their beloved guests screaming.

The house paints pictures. Thousands and thousands, one for each lodger. They are on the walls, hanging on little nails, down down in the dank stairwell, up in the study, across in the drawing room where the dust sheets lie. If you sit and whisper to one, it will rouse and cryraspchoke you a story where chains clanked and rattled, and they put others to sleep and Things were taken from them thwackthwackthwack _Iseeit! I see it!_

nay i prithee do not move, do not move twitch speak breathe, i shall cut it out forsooth i shall cut it out and put it there in yonder bauble and then in a portrait you shall go, my changeling, and scream till thy gentle throat bleeds and the house, the house shall know you like a lover, my sweet, don’t move, don’t. move.

it needs souls, my love.

it needs the pieces.

my darling, let it go. into this trinket it flies. wear it upon thy breast, truly, and then you shall have it close again. kill me another, and you shall wear more gold.

tie him down, my love. strike deep, and i shall cut it out of you.

shhhh.

Soft! I did but dream. The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight. The lights burn blue and now the walls have begun turning. Little blue candles, my darling, my love. Don’t follow or you will be eaten.

Tread softly in the halls and do not wake the portraits, my aaaaaaaangel.

The house is empty and now the heart is starting up again. Listen! Beat. Beat. Beat. Beeeeaaaat. Beeee-eeeaaat. Beeeeeaaasst. Beastbeastbeastbeatbeat.

Beat.

* * *

 _29th December, 2010_

 _It snowed last night. I sat at my window, unable to sleep for the howling. The inmates. It sounded as if all of them opened their mouths at once and… howled. Like the unseen packs of wolves that roam mountain forests._

 _And then in the morning…_

 _I did not know Dementors could be killed. It is difficult to picture a creature with the power to dismember a being that has no limbs, and yet, that is how it appears. Dementors are air and darkness, made of the ash and the putrid essence of the dead. They, their hands and arms and faces, are no more solid than the mist that cloaks them in the halls of this prison._

 _Something tore a Dementor to shreds last night. The cells of the east block are filled with an upheaval of earth. And we are now short five Aurors._

 _They must have fled in the night. The howling was enough to drive a person mad._

 _I was late to our session, and she looked at me when I entered as if she knew where I had been, as if she had dug the hole and thrown the ragged remains of the Dementor into it herself._

 _The warden has sent word to the Ministry to send more Aurors._

 

 **Recorded, session 11:**

I always liked the staircases. They grind when they move, and it is as if the stones are whispering to each other in the darkness. Even the staircases up above, where no one is allowed to go. They moved, they whispered, they took things up into the darkness where we could not see. The ghosts sent the loud one up there one day and then we had no trouble, no trouble at all, no noisy spirit.

The Third. The walls date back to the medieval years before they knew the lighting spell and every student carried a torch from class to class to class and two down in the dungeons. They had to be careful then. But now there is good magic. It is a good place full of good magic.

 _He_ should not have come to such a good place. He could not overcome such spirit, such goodwill and gentle incantation. He was evil, you see, and he did not belong, and he was struck down on the lawn like the vile thing he was. And history was made, you understand. All the world rejoiced as one mind, one body, one voice, rejoiced in the day the dark thing fell and the castle prevailed and the light, the _light_ shone again. They will write another tome and add this to it, the day the darkness receded. For the castle is good and will never be brought to its knees. It holds all the good magic, as the ones who crafted it from the standing stones beneath wished, and so they deemed it to the sky, the sun, the stars, the earth—

They’re in the walls.

Good magic. Good magic needs good, good, good people.

Take a torch at night and you can see them. Down deep. Of The Earth. The walls begin to molder and the lights to flicker. The air is damp. They were so good. Such good people. Most fortunate to be in such a good, good place.

Touch the walls and they wail. Breathe against the stone and they scratch at you. Tell them they are good.

Oh, how good you are, children. Cunning emerald and shrewd sapphire, valiant ruby and devoted amber. Oh, how good you are, loved ones. Tell them how good they are, how much you love them. For you do, you love them, you love their flat hands and whorling hair. You love their broken nails and their flowing eyes.

Oh, how good you are, my sweet ones.

 _He_ comes, and the Vortex opens. Can you see it?

I see it! I s-s-seeeeeee it!

He is on the lawn. He laughs at the goodness, foolish creature. He waves his stick and struts in black robes. Filth. He poisons our good hearts. The snake. The serpent. He struts in black. The Savior struts in red and they all strut, strut, strut. They all wave, wave, wave. And they all burn, burn, burn.

The filth speaks dirty words through slitted mouth. He is not good enough for such beauty, such magic. He will burn, sick thing, his sickness will burn away. Golden flames, they are so hot, so hot. So good. He has squandered his gift and now he will burn.  
The devotees of the false god fall to their knees, mud on their knees, soiled for worshipping such filth. It takes them, you see, it takes their blood. It pulls their arms away. It takes their hands, it pulls their legs free and takes their escape, it takes their heads last because it likes the sounds they make.

Of the earth of the earth of the earth.

The followers of light turn on each other, misbegotten infants. They howl and claw and leap upon each other, and rend and rend and rend. Hunched, bloated backs, red and dripping nails, mouths, red and dripping as the harvest moon, red and dripping as the searing stones of the castle. Their voices tear, they screech and yowl, the walls glow white-hot, and the sepulchre opens.

The Savior begins to scream.

It wants him.

It wants him inside where it can taste him.

It will cleanse that filthy scar from him, it will. He is good. Good, good, good. He needs no soiled mark upon his head. It takes him in, it rises and wraps loving arms around him. Squeeeeeze. He needs no filthy air in his perfect lungs. Into the earth he goes. Into the earth. Cradled. He screams. He does not _understand_ , poor thing.

Of the earth he is. The good, good earth.

It takes them back home. Blood traitors, all. It birthed them, it takes them. Monstrous mother. Coo, coo, my children, it loves you, lullaby, good night, sleep well and deep. Rock, rock, roooooock.

* * *

 _30th December, 2010_

 _It is near midnight and I cannot sleep. I am shaken to the core by her latest narrative. What her eyes must have seen… This latest is, as far as I am aware, the only known narrative of what occurred during the Final Battle, and yet, even now I am given no time to think on it, on what it means. It is nearly insensible, and makes little else clear, aside from explaining some of the grotesque horror that was discovered there during the following days._

 _What remains untold is where they all went. For they left evidence of humans—Gods! It is too horrible to think about. But nary a body, no breathing soul to tell us what became of the two factions, the myriad warriors and their magic. Only scorched earth and blood._

 _But I have little time. The Dementors have taken to shrieking, if what they are doing can be named as such. They fly at certain prisoners, heedless of the constricting spells from the remaining Aurors, and yet leave others untouched. We have had to chain the captives in the west block with metal cuffs; they have discovered a way, amidst their sudden grunting and clawing and staring, to throw off the magical bindings, though the warden can offer no explanation. The earth has risen again on the east side, buckling and taking whole cellblocks under its wave._

 _Several of the prisoners have broken loose and are out there in the dark. When the wind dies down, I fancy I hear them, scratching at the stone walls. Scratching…_

 _My subject paces her cell, back and forth on bare feet. She rubs dirt into her face and arms, sucks it between her lips, and laughs at every shriek of her former guards. They will not come near her, but I can hear them feeding every so often._

 _I think I shall go mad. The earth… is moving._

 _There is no way off this island._

 

 **Recorded, session 12:**

Have you looked upon the sun? Tear down my curtain. It is gone from the sky, and I wish to see the screaming ghosts again. There is no moon and the ice is creeping over the windowsill.

Have you eyes to look?

I was to feel the Extractor. I was to listen to the portraits keen and watch the blue lights flicker. But I could only See.

I was to live in the Conduit. I was to give it what it needed. I was to sing to my sweet blond sprite until he slept, until the gateway opened and took us both away. But I could only See.

I was to dwell in the Vortex. I was to climb the staircases into the bitter darkness and decipher what was whispered there. But I could only See.  


> The First, it sings of hidden things, it needs, it seethes, it craves to breathe

> The Second, up above it loves, it molds the glove, it twists, it sloughs

> The Third, it grasps the new-turned flax, it hacks the track, it sends it back

  


> The Fourth.

> It mourns

> For what was born

> It clears the thorns

> And then

  


> Reforms. 

  
Wait you, for when it spins. Axis, Axis, Axis. Aaaaaazkaban. All the parts are here. The dead things are here; they whine and wail and feed. The baser ones are here; they claw and scratch and howl. The noble beasts are here; they wave their sticks, for they are ignorant.

They are small.

There is magic in the air. In the earth.

It does not like swaying scales. It does not like disproportion. It is old enough to know the difference.

Do not put a face on It. Ugly, human face. Hideous, to insult It so, for It is older than you. Older than the false, filthy god. Older than the oldest blood magic. It is Of The Earth, and It came Before.

Before angel, before devil, before the sinner or the sin. Before the sky and the sun and the rain to clean the stain away. Before the human.

It is coming. Can you not feel It writhing within your bones? It wants them, for you have the gift, and It will take back that which you have borrowed and tainted. It will take back my Eyes, for I have seen It and It has burnt them from their sockets in return.

Those who look upon It burn.

Those who breathe Its essence twist and snap into primal things.

Those who speak Its name are given grey and left to clickclickclick sleep paint, red ink, flaxen hair.

It is time to be cleansed. Time means nothing to It. It has arrived in baubles and tiny blue lights, in the murmurs of portraits and the beating of a giant heart. It has warped and cracked under the flow of pure, pure blood, in the glow of pure, pure magic, and It has left them in pure, pure madness. It has gone back down and It has taken the filth and the scar, the False God and the Savior, and apart the two were so cacophonous, so unbalanced, but together… together… oh, they sing such sweet music.

You can hear their song in the screams of the ghosts. You can hear the earth rising. You can hear the dirge of voices, for It rides upon them and they dwell within It. It will take up new paint and gloss a perfect, barren canvas, and when It is done, there will be new magic in place of the dirtied swell.

The house. The Extractor burns. The portraits cry, the blue lights fail at last, and the rats go deep. The manor. The Conduit breaks. They are ripping apart now, the ones that Kiss. The animals howl and plunge and the earth rises up to take them and they scream. The castle. The Vortex devours itself. The people vanish, they vanish, and the old, dirty magic goes with them.

Only the Axis remains, and it turns. It turns and turns. Look, look out. Tear down my curtain and look out. You can see it.

 _My god._

 _Please. Oh. My god. I can see it coming._

 _There are no more Dementors. Aurors. She is… laughing._

 _The earth is splitting. I see--_

 _God--_

Do you see do you see it doyouseeitseeitseeitdoyou

See.

It.

 

Do you?

 

~fin~


End file.
